Paul Milander's Gun
by Chancellor Amethyst
Summary: Everyone's favourite serial killer has a copycat, as it seems, and the CSI team track him while dodging "help" from the FBI...and it doesn't really help when they suspend a valuable part of their team. (Written in two parts)


**"Paul Milander's Gun (Part One)"**

_**by Elton "Elwhis" Fantabulous**_

_Warnings: Mature themes, slight violence, language. Nothing worse than you'd see on the show...okay, something a little worse than you'd see on the show, but that's just because they'd be afraid of the ratings suffering. (Not that they can, right now...CSI is in its "Captain Fantastic"/"Led Zeppelin 4" period right now.) The only NC-17 scene is not in the story, but available separately. Read at your own risk--this isn't a buggle gum ferry ride for our team. Disclaimer: I don't own CSI, if I did this would be on screen instead of hidden on the net. And CSI probably wouldn't be as popular...anyway, comments can be sent to _

_

* * *

_

"Just when you finally thought you'd never see another dead man in a tub—"

"You find two," Grissom answered, rhetorical.

"Of all the serials to copycat," Brass said, watching as Grissom proceded into the hotel bathroom. "This isn't good."

Grissom picked up the mini-recorder. "He knows the message to the letter, he has one of those rubber hands...."

Brass frowned. "Someone who had access to the case file. Someone in the department? Someone who knew what happened?"

"Or someone who knew Milander."

"Did you find something?"

Grissom held up a hair in his tweezers. "Long blond hair."

"Planted? Left by the killer?"

Grissom shrugged, putting the hair in a clear plastic bag and labeling it. "The other scene only had planted prints. Milander planted his own hair to tell a story...either this killer is reckless or trying to tell us something."

"Dammit," Brass muttered under his breath. "We set up forensics to catch killers and thieves and other types, and we end up breeding a few that just want to have a good time outsmarting us."

Grissom said nothing, hitting the button on the recorder.

_"...My name is George Bennett. I reside at 5723 Catalina River Drive, Las Vegas, Nevada. I am 42 years of age, and I'm going to kill myself. I just can't do it anymore. I want to say 'I love you, mom'...."_

And there was a gunshot, making both Brass and Grissom jump.

Grissom put the recorder in another bag. "We'll print this...not that it really matters." He frowned. "Prints will belong to Paul Millander Sr., of two Ls, and he's dead so they can't help but be plants."

"This a private investigation?"

"Hey, Sara," Grissom said, on his hands and knees, checking around with his flashlight. "Copycat victim number two. Could you print around the tub?"

"Sure," she said, moving in on the job. "Wow," she said.

"What?" Grissom asked, perking up and questioning.

"Bruising around the temples. Makes Rampler's muzzle stamp pale compared to this WWE Extreme action." Sara pulled out the camera. "This guy seems a little more violent and hands-on than Milander."

"Copy cats don't copy so much as emulate, Sara," Grissom said, returning to his search under the tub, combing the carpet. "Swab the bruises. It's a shot in the dark but maybe we can get a hit off the sweat. Violence and adrenaline up the body's sweat production."

"How long has he been dead?"

"Under a day," Brass said immediately. "Front desk said he last checked his mail and phone calls yesterday evening."

"Where's Warrick?" Grissom asked, unseen behind the tub.

"Paged," Sara replied. "He's on his way."

"Good." Grissom stood, holding a tweezed purple fiber. "I want him to pull the security cameras around the room. See if that'll give us anything, beyond the last victim's tapes of the maintenance guy in the pulled down hat." Another little clear bag opened and the fiber was dropped inside. He regarded the bag.

"Maybe this will help us find why the copy cat in the hat came back."

* * *

Grissom sat with his team, an array of evidence bags and papers littering the table.

"Jordan Foster, born August 17, 1965. George Bennett, born August 17, 1964." Catherine looked at the paper. "At least it'll take this guy a lot longer to get to you, Grissom."

"Funny." Grissom picked up another page of stats. "Do they have anything else in common?"

Nick shook his head. "Nothing so far, boss. Check for parking tickets, only one for Foster, none for Bennett. Foster lived in a different part of town, worked as an insurance broker; Bennett was a security guard at Caesar's. Both Caucasian males, same DOB...." Nick checked his own lists. "Still looking into it."

"Ran the prints on the mini recorder," Sara said. "Any guesses?"

"Right." Grissom looked at the rubber hand in the middle of the table. "I don't think we can get a warrant to arrest Mr. Millander, Sr."

"Your fiber came back chenille," Greg piped up, pushing the little evidence bag back. "As in chenille sweaters, socks, shirts...that colour was used in a run of department store winter wear in Canada and northern states...so, my best guess would be that it's been there a while, from another traveler who stayed in that room. Killer seems local, and male." Greg shrugged. "Sorry."

Grissom looked at Sara. "Any DNA hit from the forehead swab?"

Greg answered, shaking his head. "Just your vic." Greg was nearly cut off, but he found a way to continue. "And, I've got to say, this running back between the lab and full-time field agent isn't really working well for my—"

"Not now, Greg," Grissom said firmly and quickly. "I'm sorry your replacement didn't work out. But right now, I need focus on this."

"Right," Greg conceded.

"We're crashing your party," came an outside voice and then a knock on the door.

"And you are...?" Grissom asked.

"Emmett Sanders," replied the taller one of the two intruders. "FBI. This is Rod Drake. We were assigned to..._help_ your investigation."

"I've got my whole team on this," Grissom replied. "We don't need help."

"It wasn't a request or suggestion," said Sanders, walking further in the room with a folder in his hand. "We were assigned. You didn't ask for help; we didn't volunteer. Our office has been working the same case from a different angle." Sanders took a seat at the far end of the table, where there was still room. His partner took a seat behind him. "You're not looking for a copy cat," the agent said. "You're looking for Paul Milander."

Nick was the first to laugh and respond. "He's dead. Grissom saw 'em with his own two eyes and these murders aren't really his style. There's too much aggression and attention."

Sanders pulled out a piece of paper. "Crime report, from a bar half an hour from Reno. An assault turned homicide, with several eyewitnesses. Outside of your jurisdiction, it came to our labs. The blood lifted from his jacket came back Paul Milander."

"That guy forged documents and faked tests left and right," Warrick countered. "Used his father's prints as his own. Probably had a buddy give a DNA sample for him."

The agent shook his head. "We thought that. If it weren't for a particularly odd witness report, we would still think that, and we wouldn't be here talking."

"How odd?" asked Catherine.

Sanders scanned down, looking for that account on his report. "_...she dropped the pipe and ran. I remember her from inside the bar, drinking bottled water, because she was pregnant and she looked like a man, or a really ugly woman._ That was the waitress' account. Happened a little over two years ago."

Nick raised an eyebrow. "So he fakes his death and dresses in drag and beats a guy? I don't know—"

"It wasn't a drag act," Sanders replied, pulling out another report. "He really was Milander, and he really was pregnant."

Warrick was the voice of reason next. "Pregnant. Your proof that this is Milander is because he was pregnant? Weird and twisted, sure, but pregnant? He was a dude, come on—"

"No, he wasn't, not exactly," Grissom said suddenly, in a hushed tone. "Paul Milander was...a transsexual. Born Pauline Millander," he said, looking down at a folder.

"Creepy," Nick said.

Grissom snapped out of his thoughts long enough to give Nick a quick glare, but said nothing.

"Even still, can transsexuals have children?" Catherine asked.

Sanders replied. "It depends on the operations they have and the hormones they receive, and their individual body conditions. It's not incredibly likely, but it's not impossible."

"So," Sara began, "you're saying Milander is still alive."

"And a woman," added Nick.

"And pregnant?" asked Warrick.

Greg sat back in his chair, gesturing. "You guys are saying that Paul Milander is alive, pregnant, in Reno and killing again? How do you know for sure?"

Sanders read from the report he held. "_Proof of live birth, Northeastern Nevada Regional. Nigel Frederick Millander, five pounds, two ounces; born to Pauline Millander._"

"Northeastern...that's in Elko."

Catherine looked to Grissom, concerned for him. "Hey, Gris, you okay?"

Grissom looked up, startled. "When?"

"Right now."

"No, when was the...that hospital report taken?"

Sanders passed Grissom a copy. "A little over two years ago. That puts Paul Milander at five months pregnant when he killed Mr. Jaruso."

Catherine looked to the FBI, puzzled. "Why would Milander, on the run and obviously concerned enough to have the baby, jepoardize his thinly guarded freedom to kill someone? It's no where near his MO."

"It wasn't a planned attack. Waitress says that Jaruso insulted and egged Milander on all night. Concerned, she watched when Milander left, and Jaruso followed after. She says Jaruso attacked him after he reached the parking lot. She was about to call for help when Milander found a metal pipe or rod and beat Jaruso to death."

"Serves you right for beating a pregnant serial killer," Nick muttered under his breath, perusing through the reports Sanders handed to the group.

"This is still your investigation, but we're staying involved. Paul Milander at large is no one's idea of justice. We're catching him, and he's a hard case to break, so I want everything documented and recorded to the letter. Even serials need a solid case to be brought down. To the letter," he repeated, stern. "Especially serials," he continued, "and especially one as shrewd as Milander."

Catherine nodded. "We always do." Not hearing an affirmation, she turned to Grissom and found him looking at reports, staring at them as though they were a door for the eyes. "Hey, you awake?"

"Yeah. Just...shaken."

* * *

Sara munched on a sandwich, the first thing she'd eaten in a day—all right, not exactly, but it felt like that sometimes. "They both had hazel eyes," she said, looking at compared stats of both victims.

"Unless there's a convention for hazel eyed people," Warrick began, "I'm doubting that's how our killer finds his victims."

"You never know. This is Vegas. I still have nightmares about that whole PAFCON thing."

"You weren't there," he said, shifting through pictures and forms.

"Thank God," she said with the last bite of her sandwich. "The report was bad enough." She tossed the wrappers in the trash, careful not to lean back too far in her chair. "Well, their cars are both white. Is there a white car convention?"

"Yeah," Warrick started. "It's called the Interstate."

"Hey, here's something," Sara said, sitting up suddenly. "Gregory Morris High...they both attended, Foster from '79 to '83, Bennett from '80 to '85."

"Failed some courses?"

"Apparently...that's three years attendance in common."

"A teacher? Someone on administrative staff?"

"Or just a student...birthdates are usually printed in yearbooks."

Warrick frowned. "Then it could be anyone who attended even one of those three years."

Sara studied the paper. "I had a friend whose dad went to the same high school she did. They were selling old yearbooks and he just walked in and bought one because he'd lost his. It could be anyone, then."

Warrick nodded, disappointed. "If they're giving these out to just anyone, we should get ourselves some copies. See if the birthdates are on there."

"I'll drive."

* * *

Behind a curtain of intrigue, Grissom toyed with a half full water tank, coloured pieces of paper and a fan.

"What are you doing?" asked Catherine, intruding in on this scientific sanctuary.

"Testing the effects of oil in water as related to blowing confetti," he answered, matter-of-factly.

"And this has to do with dead guys in bathtubs how?"

"It doesn't. Different case."

"We've got a serial come back and you're playing with sparkly bits of paper and an aquarium?" she retorted, about to put a folder on his desk.

But he caught it. "Whoa!" he said, indicating the new desk ornament, making Catherine jump back. "First, this is a copycat, not Milander. And second, please be careful. You'll hurt Ziggy."

"Ziggy?"

"You know, Ziggy Stardust and the—"

"—Spiders From Mars, yeah, yeah, I know. Can't you keep your...pets in their boxes?"

"This," Grissom indicated the tank, "was his home. I'm borrowing it, so he gets the desk."

"Well, sorry I almost squished your tarantula."

"He's not a tarantula, but I'm sure he'd be honoured by the mistake. Beyond that, you wouldn't have squished him, but he'd probably be a little mad if you dropped this," he said, taking the file, "on his head." Grissom put his glasses back on, reading over the pages. "Autopsy report," he read, "Paul Milander."

"Yeah, notice anything funny about it?"

Grissom read, reaching over absently to touch 'Ziggy'.

"What are you doing?" Catherine asked.

"Reading. Well, skimming, actually, to find what you—"

"No, no, with the spider."

"Oh," Grissom glanced to Ziggy momentarily, before returning to his reading. "Scritching."

"Scritching?"

"Ziggy is just as lovable as your average tomcat—this is odd," he said suddenly, starting a new thought, holding the file closer and pulling his other hand away from Ziggy.

"Yeah," Catherine said, shuddering and looking at the spider.

"Gunshot wound, self inflicted, that part is fine. But no tests, no tox reports, no photos...and gender simply stated as male. Even if he'd had the most radical sex change procedures available, and a pregnancy would suggest he didn't, the abbreviated autopsy would have notes about a hysterectomy, mastectomy...and since he didn't his gender couldn't be stated as male." Grissom looked up, concerned. "And no one noticed this?"

"Only you, myself, Sara and Greg knew he was ever a woman at all. So, if none of us ever had to glance at the report, no one had need to notice."

Grissom frowned, shutting the file and handing it back.

"I'll take Nick," Catherine began, " and go check out the crematorium the report says he was sent to."

"He was never given an autopsy. Go to the coroner that conducted it and—" Grissom looked back. "Tell me it wasn't Robbins."

Catherine shook her head. "Different shift. Body came in on days."

"Count on Ecklie," Grissom said under his breath. "Talk to the cut-rate coroner that filed that report first."

"I would, but he transfered. We're looking into where he is now; it seems he's transferred a few times," Catherine remarked with obvious disapproval. "Wonder why. We'll check the crematorium first. Just to be sure he was never sent there while we're waiting for Doctor Do-Nothing to turn up in our records." Catherine turned away, about to leave. "Why are you so sure that Milander hasn't come back? Just because you saw him 'dead' doesn't mean in the face of all this evidence you should ignore—"

Grissom shook his head. "I believe he's probably still alive somewhere. He tricked us enough times. But these killings..." Grissom shook his head. "They don't seem...him."

Catherine shrugged. "Okay, boss," she said, leaving him to play with his toys and give Ziggy a proper scritching.

Which he was more than happy to do, of course.

* * *

Finally free of the lab, Greg Sanders jumped into his car and flew out of the parking lot in seek of the nearest interstate—and one that would take him to Elko.

Take the I-15, then to Route 93...then I-80. Well, it'd be a bit of a double back but that just meant more time away from the lab. Northeastern Nevada Regional, get ready for Greggo!

He stopped for a BrainFreezer™ and chilidog, letting his CD player blast as he did so. It was about a five hour drive, and five–hour drives required snacks.

"_It will never be same again, and I know I don't have any time to burn!_" he yowled with his stereo, in tune...mostly. Tapping his steering wheel with furry, he almost missed the turn...almost.

"_Leave it all behind! Cross the borderline; face the truth; don't have any time to—_"

Miraculously, he could hear his cell phone ring over his self-induced racket. In a feat of acrobatics he turned down the radio, pulled over and flipped open his cell phone before it could ring again.

"Greggo's House of Pancakes," he answered. "Your wish is what we dish, in chocolate, maple, mulberry or kumquat."

"Kumquat?" said the voice on the other end, unimpressed.

"Oh...hey," Greg said, defeated with a little embarrassed chuckle. "Hey, boss."

"Yeah, anyway, we've got a steady pile of evidence that needs to be run through a mass spec, and this DNA isn't going to match itself."

"Which is probably why it hasn't gotten laid in years," he quipped.

"Greg."

"I'm following up on a lead," he said, knowing he was cooked. Only a half an hour out—dammit, why couldn't he have called an hour later? The point of no return?

"And that is?"

"Well, Catherine was supervising at the time, and she approved."

"All right, and your lead is?"

"Well, Milander had a baby, right?"

"Presumably."

"Hospitals take records, make notes. Even though Milander was careful, he put his real name on the records. There's got to be something on that end that'll help us find him," he said, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice—anything but the lab....

There was a short pause. "Okay," Grissom said finally.

"Okay?" Greg repeated, astonishment shining through his tone.

"Okay. See what you can find. See you tomorrow, bring everything you find to the meeting."

"Tomorrow?"

"By the time you get to Elko, wait for records, come back and file everything, you'll be burned out if you start in the lab after that. I'll see if the person on days wants some overtime."

"Really?"

"Really."

Greg's smile split his face. "Thanks! I'll get everything I can to that meeting."

"Don't have your hopes too high," Grissom warned. "He had a baby...I doubt there'll be a lot there."

"Okay. See you all to-morrow."

"To-morrow."

* * *

Also with little hope of finding anything, Nick and Catherine pulled up to Silver Meadows, Funeral Home and Crematorium.

"How do you lose the body of a serial killer?" Nick asked, and not for the first time.

"Case wasn't publicized; he didn't have 'serial killer' written on his face; morgues lose bodies," Catherine replied, also not for the first time.

"Lose bodies. I know it happens, but it just doesn't seem possible that a morgue could lose a body."

Catherine shrugged. "I'm just wondering why the coroner put down this crematorium, specifically. It's not a well–known one, a rather small operation...why not put down a name of a different one that processes more bodies? Blame it on the paper."

"If this guy was stupid enough to fake an autopsy report," Nick said, "then maybe he was stupid enough to not try and hide it."

"He might have gotten away with it. If we didn't think Milander was still alive, no one would have double checked the reports."

"And if he hadn't been a woman, no one would have seen anything fishy."

The pair exited the SUV, walking up the path to the main building. "Let's see if anybody's home," Catherine said, pushing the door open slowly.

"Hello," said a somewhat smarmy man in a suit, who resembled a very tall mouse of some kind. "Andrew Canneviola," he said, keeping both hands behind his back, "I'm the director and manager of this facility. Can I help you? What are you two looking for today?"

"I'm Catherine Willows," she said, pulling out her ID. "This is Nick Stokes...we're with the Las Vegas crime lab."

The mousy man looked a tad confused, but didn't miss a beat. "A professional visit? Come this way, come this way," he said, leading them to the office. "Now, what can I help you with?"

Catherine was a little off put by the uppity funeral home director, but made sure not to miss any of her own beats. "We were following up case leads and were wondering if you processed any bodies by the name of Milander?"

Canneviola sat behind his desk and started typing, looking from the screen to the keys at a hectic pace. "Please, sit down, sit down," he offered, indicating the short but proud black leather chairs. "Now, Milander...one L or two?"

"We've seen it written both ways, so both."

He nodded. "Well, with two—" he sat up suddenly. "Wait, don't you need a-a-a...a warrant or something to have access to my files?"

"If you don't volunteer the information," Catherine explained, "yes. But if you want us to come back with a warrant we'd have to close you down until we find what we want."

"Oh, not good, not good," he said, returned to his typing and staring to close to the screen. "There was an Isabelle Millander cremated...almost three years ago. Would you like the details of that processing?"

"No—" Catherine started.

"Yes, actually we would." Nick turned to Catherine, and continued quietly. "Wasn't that his mother's name?"

Catherine nodded. "Good ears." She turned back to the manic director. "We'd appreciate what you have on that cremation."

The director nodded, pulling a piece of paper fresh off his printer. "There you are." He glanced back to the screen in front of him. "That's the only Millander we have on file here."

"Who collected her ashes?" Catherine asked.

The director flipped through a few more screens. "No record."

"No record? Are they still here?"

He shook his head. "No. They were received by a family member...if it's not recorded, then it was the person who brought her in."

"Well, who gives out the urns around here?" Nick asked.

"I have employees, but matters like that I handle myself."

"Do you remember that case?"

He shook his head. "No, sorry. Like I said, if I remember the person bringing the body in, then I'll give them the urn. I have a great memory for faces...as long as it hasn't been too long."

Catherine nodded, sighing with some disappointment. "Thank you, Mr—"

"Canneviola, and thank you." He shook their hands. "Good luck with your case."

"Thanks."

* * *

Buried in paper, Grissom scanned papers.

"Busy?" asked Brass, entering.

Grissom looked up for a moment, watching as his guest took a seat before glancing back to his search. "Not incredibly."

"What are...what are you looking for?" he asked in an odd tone.

"Looking over the list of people who checked out Milander's case file."

"So you don't think these new murders were him."

"I'm not saying it isn't, but...no. It doesn't feel right. I'm not ready to rule out a copy cat just yet."

"Anything flag your attention?" Brass asked, indicating the record he held.

"No one really checked out his file. Except, oddly enough, the coroner who did his 'autopsy'," he said with finger quotes.

"I heard about that. Of all the bodies to lose."

"Apparently there wasn't a body to lose in the first place."

"Didn't tell anyone...gives Milander a free run for three years."

Grissom nodded. "No one else checked out the file. Case wasn't made public, beyond the community being noted of apparent suicide victims. Unless our coroner is the copy cat, this isn't going to help us," he said, putting the paper on his desk. "What can I do for you?" he asked, giving Brass his full attention.

"Gil, are you all right? You seem...distant."

"I'm fine. Maybe a little tired, but that will go away."

"Not if you don't sleep, it won't. But there's something else...this whole Milander back from the dead business is really disturbing you."

Grissom shrugged. "It's not really surprising. He staged suicides, eluded capture, hid more than we'll ever know...why not fake his own death? We wouldn't have caught him at all if he hadn't left us breadcrumbs to his courtroom," Grissom finished, a bitter defeat in his eyes.

"Is this another one of those 'I don't want to fight because he might just be smarter than me' scenarios?"

Grissom tapped his desk impatiently. "It was before. It is now. Nothing different."

"You sure?"

Grissom was quiet, and only shrugged.

"Take care of yourself. Get some sleep. Don't stay here overnight...take a break."

"I don't seem to be getting anywhere anyway."

Brass sat down. "This isn't the Gil I know. What's on your mind?"

"I had him, dammit! He lead us through hoops; he left treasure maps and riddles and when we finally get him he sets up his last puzzle and then makes it look like he killed himself?" Grissom's fists striking the table caused the papers atop it to bounce and scatter. "Is that how it's supposed to be? Is this how we play the games? I saw his body; I assumed he was dead...I put too much faith in science...I believe that no one could fake a death..." he gestured with an open palm, almost hopeless, "...like that."

"I should be able to tell you not to make it personal, but, since it is, I'm going to tell you to make it impersonal. And fast."

His face in his hands, Grissom shuddered, forcing himself back to a calm plateau of indifference. "I...easier said," he remarked, muffled.

Brass frowned. "Take care of yourself. Go home, get some sleep, do something to get this off your mind."

Grissom looked up, red and overheated from the outburst. "I'll clock out in three hours," he said. "I've got some work to—"

"Two hours," Brass said firmly.

Grissom paused, then nodded. "Two hours," he agreed.

* * *

Refreshed to a degree and ready to snare the bad guys in their rabbit traps of science, the CSIs sat around the table, comparing notes and hunting.

"We've got," Grissom checked his watch, "twenty minutes before our federal shadows come to crash the party, so I want everything on the table before that. Catherine?"

"We've gotten a hold of the phantom coroner; he's in your old haunt—L.A. They're sending him over to-morrow for an interview."

"Ring his neck," Grissom replied quickly. "And find out anything you can about...how Milander faked his death." He took a copy of Catherine's notes, turning to Warrick. "And you two found?"

"Our vics went to the same high school—Gregory Morris. We picked up yearbooks from the three years they attended and records of birthdates for all attendees." Warrick took some print outs and added it to the growing pile of evidence. "No one was born on August 17, 1963 and went to that school, no one male, but there is one on August 17, 1962...so he's going to have find a new method of selecting them after this."

"All the other details our vics had in common wouldn't have helped our killer," Sara added.

"And those are?" Grissom asked.

"White car, green eyes, that kind of thing."

Grissom nodded. "The blood evidence taken from Milander's tub just returned from Quantico; Greg," he addressed, "could you please find out whose blood it is? Maybe some clues on how he got away."

"Right-o. Priority."

"No," Grissom shook his head. "I want to concentrate on finding out where our—"

Catherine cut him off. "Do we even know, for certain, that Paul Milander is alive? Before we chase him instead of a copycat, shouldn't we try to confirm he is alive? Bodies get switched, reports get switched, DNA can be, rarely, faked."

"At this point," Grissom started, disquiet, "we can't be sure if...."

"Actually, we can," Greg piped up. "I went to the hospital, and they put Nigel Milander in one of those child find initiatives."

"Fingerprints?" Nick said. "That doesn't exactly prove that Milander is alive."

"Better. DNA." Greg shrugged. "Well, and fingerprints. I ran the DNA from Nigel Milander against the hair from Pauline's childhood bedroom. With eight alleles in common," Greg passed the DNA match report to Grissom, "guess who's a mommy!"

"Thanks, Greg," Grissom said with a frown.

"I'm also going to see if I can find the father."

"Why?" Grissom asked, looking up from the DNA analysis.

Greg shrugged. "It's hard to run it through the computer, because it's not looking for an exact match, but I figure the father's someone helping Milander, or helped him at some point. If we find him, then maybe we'll get a lead. It's not much, but it might help."

Grissom nodded absently. "Any DNA match found on the hair?"

"Hair?"

"The blonde hair we found in Bennett's tub."

"Nope."

Grissom shook his head. "We need to move the focus away from finding Milander. If he's the killer, the evidence from the new crimes will lead us to him. If not, then we need to find the larger threat." Grissom turned to Catherine. "After you interview that coroner, look over the scene reports from the last two vics. Anything on how he got away, how he got in—"

"We already checked—"

"Check again. Greg, after you give the computer a once through on a father, move on to the hair. Try matching it to our vic. A daughter, sister, what have you. You only have one chance to find a father. After that, no more. Sara, Warrick, go back to the hotel Bennett was killed at and find anything you can." Grissom checked his watch again. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to fill in our reluctant partners." He stood. "Did anyone have anything else?"

There was a chorus of shaking heads.

"Thank you," he said in an almost thankless tone, leaving out the door.

* * *

"Yo," Greg greeted, with accompanying finger-guns gesture.

"Hey, Greg," Catherine replied shutting the lab door.

"What can I do ya for?"

"Not now, Greg."

With a shrug, Greg nodded and went back to his test tubes and jars. "Then how can I help you, m'lady?"

Her eyebrows went up, and laughed a bit, finally appreciating a little light mood. "Just...recouping."

"From...."

Catherine looked at some papers she held. "From that interview. God, that coroner was such an idiot. Tried to blame the body loss on the crematorium."

"Shocking," Greg said, pushing some buttons.

She rubbed her eyes, leaning against a bare patch of wall. "Insisted he did an autopsy, tried to bluff details." She laughed a little, brightening her features in the process. "You should have seen his face when Nick told him Milander was a woman."

Greg's voice was muffled, as he checked a connection in his machines, wondering why his bottom printer wasn't working. "He wasn't technically a woman."

"I know." Catherine chuckled a little more, perhaps a little giddy with the stress. "But it was a whole lot more fun that way."

Greg stood, having solved the mystery of the non-functioning printer: it wasn't plugged in. "Technically he was an intersexed transsexual."

"Technically he _is_ an intersexed transsexual."

"Touché," Greg replied, admitting defeat in the game of semantics.

Catherine rubbed her forehead. "I need coffee," she said with a moan.

"Where's Nicky boy?"

"Hmm?"

"Nicky boy. He's been running around with you on this, right?"

"Oh, right. Grissom sent him off to work a robbery."

"Lucky Nicky boy."

"Can't have everyone on the same case when there's other scenes to be worked...especially since we've got a killer or two who are just making us wait in anticipation."

"Fun." Greg held up a printout in triumph. "Ha ha! We have print-off."

"Is that the hair in the tub?"

"Nope. Warrick's dumpster DB. From my stack of work from before."

"If it doesn't have the name Milander on it," Catherine started, "I'm not interested."

"That computer over there is working your case," Greg said with a point. "But I'm not holding out much hope."

"Why not?"

"I couldn't think of anyone who could do the nasty with Milander...and I doubt my computer will either." He regarded the monitor and its rapidly flickering displays, and, as supervised by the God of Perfect Timing, it beeped. "Apparently my computer begs to differ, and feels that there is enough beer in the world," he said, walking over to the machine.

"That's for me," Catherine said.

"Yeah. Lessee what—hello!" he interjected, looking at the monitor.

"What's wrong?"

"Bad. Very bad." Greg looked up, genuinely concerned and worried. "The c-word."

"C—"

"Compliance."

"Compliance? But that means...."

Greg shook a little, looking at the printer with dread. "Someone in the department." He swallowed. "The last time a compliance turned up in a Milander case...."

"Prints are one thing," Catherine said. "It's probably a mistake. And maybe it's not even—"

Greg picked up the sheet, turning green as he skimmed it. He shook his head, biting his lip. "Eleven alleles in common. And it...is."

"Oh, God..." Catherine took the paper, reluctantly looking over it. "Oh, God."

"Remember how moody he was before?"

"I'm not even going to think about it."

Greg turned away, desperately involving himself in work. "Have fun telling him."

"What? No, I don't think so. These are your results. It was your idea to look for a father."

"I'm not going to tell him. Nada. No chance. I'll be stuck in my lab for months if I deliver this one!"

Catherine looked at the paper again, turning a little green herself. "How did this happen, anyway?"

"I'm sure Gris'll be asking himself the same thing when you tell him about...this."

Catherine huffed, and rolled her eyes. "You owe me, Greg."

"Okay," he agreed.

Gathering her courage and eloquence, Catherine turned and left out the lab's door.

What the Hell, exactly, was she going to say?

* * *

With heavy feet, Catherine stepped into Grissom's office. He was drawing lines on paper, apparently a graph, and she was suddenly not very sure she should interrupt his doodling.

"Gris?"

He looked up, questioning through glasses. "Yes?"

"Greg wanted me to come here and proclaim his genius."

Grissom laughed a little, returning to his chart and making a solid red line along it. "Tell him he staying in the lab today anyway."

"He found a way to narrow the search for Nigel's father."

Grissom looked back up. "How?"

She shrugged, sitting down. "He didn't say. One of his Gregorian Theorems."

"I'm sure the maths professor at UNLV would love to hear it." Grissom picked up his ruler again. "Did his theorem manage to narrow the possibilities from 3 billion?"

"Yeah." Catherine leaned over, placing the paper in front of Grissom's chart. "To one." With a choked swallow she managed, "Compliance."

Grissom looked up, deathly alarmed. "Compliance," he repeated.

"Yeah," she said, feeling a weight on her stomach. "Eleven alleles in common."

Grissom picked up the paper, a blank expression covering his features.

_Shit_, Catherine cursed inwardly. _He was doing better; he had been less moody....more relaxed._

Grissom put the paper aside, saying nothing about it. "Thank you."

"I'm going to have to put this in my report. Tell the others...."

Grissom only nodded, not looking up from his work.

"I'm sorry-"

"It's not your fault," Grissom said in a tone she couldn't place. Catherine waited, but there were no more words from her distant friend.

"See you later," she said, hurrying out, concerned.

* * *

Warrick strode into Greg's lab, receiving a page from "Dr. Livingston." He pushed open the door with little ceremony, finding Greg looking out across the hall, into Grissom's office. Spying—the nervous man's eavesdropping.

"Dr. Livingston, I presume?"

Greg jumped, dropping the blind cord and spinning around with Mortal Combat speed. "Uh, yeah, I guess...Hi, Warrick."

Warrick nodded. "Right. So what is it?"

"Uh...what...oh, right," Greg said, shaking a little and returning to his pile of papers. "I found something...much like Mr. Livingston." He handed a paper and an evidence bag containing a watch. "Your watch has DNA from two people, your vic and another. Not a relative, so I ran it through CODIS—and, wouldn't you know it." Greg handed Warrick another analysis, complete with jazz hands. "Match."

"Marshall Derringer." Warrick nodded. "Local, record for fraud, aggravated assault—and theft." With a pat on the back, Warrick smiled broadly. "I owe you, man."

"Yeah," Greg said, shaky.

"Dude, what's wrong? You're all on edge," Warrick said, a little theatric.

"I...nothing." Greg glanced over his shoulder, and quickly back.

"Did Gris say something to you? Is he waiting for something?"

Greg swallowed. "No."

Warrick. "Sure. Anyway, thanks again."

* * *

On his way to his car, Warrick stopped by the break room, having been informed from reliable sources, that there were, indeed, doughnuts present there.

"Are you sure? But how can—" Sara said, cut off, in the middle of a conversation with Nick and Catherine.

Warrick grabbed a chocolate cake Krispy Kreme, seeing as someone hoodwinked all his favourite ones. "Am I interrupting something?"

"Sit down," Catherine commanded.

"Okay," Warrick said, sitting near the group. "This sounds pretty serious."

Catherine nodded. "Yeah. And it doesn't leave this room. Not yet, anyway. Don't tell anyone on day shift, no one in the labs—no one besides us, Greg and Brass. That's it."

"We're keeping something from Gris?" Warrick started. "I don't think I like the sound of that."

"He's already...been told," Nick explained, looking away with a weirded look on his face.

"Okay. What then?"

"It's about Grissom. Greg managed to...figure out the paternity of Nigel Milander."

Warrick looked first to Nick, then back to Catherine. "I don't like the sound of this."

Catherine frowned. "No...Grissom is the father."

Warrick's eyes widened. "That's impossible! How can that be?"

Catherine shrugged; Sara shook her head.

"He got a hold of Grissom's prints—" Nick said, taking a glance at his neglected coffee and snack.

"Prints is one thing," Warrick replied. "Wow." He put the doughnut back. He didn't feel hungry anymore. "How did that happen?"

"That's what we were trying to figure out," Sara replied.

"Did anyone ask him?"

Catherine raised an eyebrow. "You want to be the one to ask?"

"Point."

"Greg just found out about ten minutes ago," Nick said.

Warrick nodded. "Explains why he was antsy."

"Antsy?" Catherine inquired.

"I went to his lab for results, and he was jumpy...trying to look into Grissom's office." Warrick shook his head again. "Man, how'd he take it? Did Greg tell him?"

"I did...how would you take it?"

"What a creep," Nick said, cutting in. "Plants Grissom's prints, leaves planted evidence, leads him right to his creepy little world...and then he...." Nick shuddered. "Obsession. I thought I was violated with all that Nigel Crane business."

"So what," Sara started, "Milander found some way to get some of...and had a baby with it?"

"Why would he even want to?" Catherine asked them. "He tries to live as a man as best he can, and then he plots to have Grissom's baby?"

Nick shrugged. "You want to try and comprehend that guy? Good luck."

"Best plan of action is just not to talk about it," Warrick said, a defeated tone to his voice.

"Good plan."

A muted squeal indicated the door was being opened, and they looked up to see Grissom enter, the picture of disquiet and looking at his pager.

"What is everyone doing?" Grissom asked, still staring at the pager, or rather, staring _through_ the pager.

"We were..." Catherine started.

"...talking," Sara finished.

Grissom flinched subtly, exhaling with butterflies. "I meant case wise."

"Working my DB from the dumpster," Warrick explained.

"Waiting for my prints to be traced from the robbery," Nick said.

"Nothing pressing? Good," Grissom said, less on power than usual. He sighed deeply. "419 on Drummond Hill Road. Apparent suicide, in a bathtub and a mini recorder." He turned around. "You're all with me. Let's go."

* * *

"Patrick Stargsbridge," Brass started, already at the scene. "Found by his wife. She's outside." He leaned in frowning. "She touched the recorder," he said, pointing to it on the floor.

Grissom rolled his eyes, photographing it anyway. "Coroner pronounce?"

"Not yet. He should be here any minute."

Grissom nodded, turning his attention to the body. "Gun shot wound, non-self inflicted. Homicide..." Grissom trailed off, pulling out his print powder, setting it aside until the body was inspected by the coroner. Not that it mattered, Grissom thought, with a wounded and depressed sigh.

"Sorry I'm late," David said by way of a greeting. "Mess of cameras outside."

"Already?" asked Grissom, exasperated.

"Sorry," he replied with a shrug. David leaned over the tub, pulling out his thermometer. "Liver temp puts the body dead for four hours."

"Wife said she'd only been here ten minutes, came home from a seven hour shift at a diner." Brass pulled out his notes. "Mi Casa Diner, to be exact."

"I doubt it was her anyway." Grissom watched as David looked over the wound.

"That's really all I can do before an autopsy," David said. "All yours," he stood, collecting his thermometer and moving back, waiting for the gurney to arrive.

"Thanks."

"Drake and Sanders are going to be all over this," Brass said, standing loyally by the door, avoiding eye contact with the late Mr. Stargsbridge.

"They have been about everything else. They'll get my notes and photos." Grissom surveyed the area around the tub. "Killer knew his wife would be at work...had at least a seven hour window."

"That's not all they'll be over," Brass commented heavily.

"Worrying about it isn't going to help me," Grissom almost snapped.

"But it's obviously bothering you."

Grissom exhaled deeply, trying in vain to relieve the pressure on his chest. "Of course it bothers me. I'm doing the best I can not to care."

"What are you going to tell them?"

Using his tweezers, Grissom found a purple fiber, similar to the one found at the previous victim's murder scene. "I don't know." He put it in an evidence bag. "There's not really anything I can tell them."

David slouched against the wall, trying to seem invisible in the midst of this obviously private conversation.

"Sorry, David," Brass apologized. "This is the only time I get to talk to him tonight so—"

"I'll leave—"

"No, it's okay, David." Grissom said flatly, giving neither eye contact. "We're not talking about this anymore."

"Okay." David peered out in the hallway, sighing in relief as the gurney was slowly approaching. "If this is about," he started, absently and stammering, "the, uh, baby, I already know anyway—"

"How the hell did you find out?" Grissom snapped, turning off his flashlight and spinning, aggressive.

David's mouth fell open, frightened by the outburst. "I-I...the...uniforms downstairs were talking about it...."

Putting his flashlight and kit down, Grissom buried his face in his hands, trying to steady himself. He'd have to change his gloves. He didn't care.

David coughed, trying to relieve his own pressure, walking over to the body as he helped them get it onto the gurney and take it away. "Grissom," he said hesitantly.

Grissom looked up slowly, cooling down.

"In the tub." David walked away, adding, "Sorry," before leaving with the body.

Picking up his flashlight and removing his gloves, Grissom crawled over to the tub. "Shut the door, would you?"

Brass leaned over to reach the handle. "Do you want to be alone?"

"No."

"All right, then," he said, closing it lightly.

Putting on new gloves, Grissom photographed the tub. Underneath the body and on top of the sleeping bag, oddly, was a Barbie-like doll in a vinyl mini skirt and what appeared to be a tube of lipstick. He photographed them. "Planted," he said quietly.

"Well, I really don't think his wife was sleeping in here and left them there before work."

He bagged them, careful not to disturb possible prints. "Does he have a daughter?"

"Doesn't look like it. Not from this marriage that I can see, anyway. Aren't you going to listen to that?" he asked, indicating the recorder.

"Why? I know what it's going to say." Grissom took out his print powder, handing his evidence bags to Brass. "Give these to Nick, would you? Have him fume them at the lab."

"Sure thing, Gil. Not in the mood to delegate and authorize tonight?"

Grissom relaxed a little, now calm. "I...I don't want to look at...."

"All right." Brass left, shutting the door and leaving Grissom alone with his tub, to dust for prints.

* * *

"Right-o," Nick said, taking the evidence bags and starting for the car. He passed Sara and Warrick along the way, looking for signs of entry and fleeing the scene.

"Don't page Grissom until you're finished both," Brass called after him.

"Sure thing."

"Where's Grissom?" came a voice from behind Brass.

"You'll get his notes and photos," Brass said, turning to find Agent Sanders. "He's already ordered copies for you," he finished with a shit-eating grin.

"I'm not here about that."

"Lost your shadow?"

"Drake's away, on another matter. Where's Grissom?"

"Busy, investigating a crime scene."

"He shouldn't be on it."

Brass cocked his head. "And why is that?"

"Suspect is possibly Paul Milander. And, as I'm sure you're aware, it was recently found that Grissom fathered Nigel Milander."

Brass shrugged. "So?"

"That puts him a position to compromise the investigation."

"Just because some wacko got his hands on his juice doesn't mean he has any reason to leave this scene."

"Did anyone bother to ask how that happened?"

"We just got word on a 419...now a homicide. He's got work to do. We'll bother with that matter later."

"Of course you will," Sanders said, pushing past and entering the house.

"Have fun with the hurricane," Brass muttered to himself. "Bad idea."

* * *

"I'm Sara Sidle, one of the investigators looking into your husband's death," was her introduction. "We need to know, what did you touch in your bathroom?"

Mrs. Stargsbridge, looking about ten years younger than her late husband and very distraught, wiped away a tear. "I...just the...the tape player," she said between sniffles. She lifted her hand, which had little smudges of blood on it, causing another torrent of tears. "Oh, God...and...and I touched him." She used her other hand to put against her face as Sara swabbed the blood and cleaned it from her other. "I touched him...but...but only a little, oh, God.... I'm so sorry.... I didn't think...didn't think that—"

"It's all right, Mrs. Stargsbridge. By any chance, was your husband's birth date...August 17, 1963?"

She looked up through her tears, trying to choke them away. "Yes..." she said. "Is that a problem?"

Sara shook her head. "What high school did he go to?"

"Umm... I can't remember."

"Gregory Morris?"

She shook her head. "No...something...something Gate Centennial." She shook her head again, the rest of her shaking as well. Brass stepped behind her, offering her support.

"Did you know a George Bennett?"

She thought a moment. "No...I don't think so."

"What about Jordan Foster?"

She shook her head again. "I don't think we do."

Sara nodded her head. "All right. We're doing all we can here...is there somewhere you'll be staying? Where we can reach you if we need to ask you a few more questions?"

She shook her head. "I don't know...I don't know. I could call my sister; but I hate to impose and she's got two jobs...but...but," she shook more intensely.

"Shh, shh," Brass said, "calm down. It's all right. We'll call your sister, all right?"

"Oh...okay," she said with a sniffle. "Oh, God...."

* * *

"Do you have something for me?" Grissom asked.

Nick looked up from his computer screen. "Fumed the doll and the lipstick. Got a print from the doll's skirt and a partial from the lipstick. Partial looks planted...too clear, sent a swab to trace for synthetic or animal oils. The print on the doll looks functional, though. Like someone grabbed it."

"Our killer?"

The technician, standing nearby, shook her head. "Print is from a child. Running it now."

Grissom turned back to Nick. "And the partial? Millander Sr?"

"Nope. They came up earlier." Nick held up the printout. "Judge Douglas Mason. A.K.A...you know," he said with a shrug.

"Milander?" he said, taking the sheet. "The killer planted Milander's prints? Not his father's?"

Nick took another piece of paper from the steadily growing pile. "Your tub tap prints, possibly also plants, came back Sr."

"He's planting Milander's prints? And his father's?"

"I guess, unless it is Milander."

"If they're clear and there's some kind of vegetable oil, they're plants no matter whose prints they are or who planted them. And that can make all the difference."

Nick shrugged. "I guess."

"Anything else?"

"Just waiting for a hit on the doll prints."

"Good. Where is the lipstick?"

Nick picked up the evidence bag. "Here, but why?"

Grissom took it. "Mrs. Stargsbridge is coming in for an interview...I'll need it for that."

Nick nodded. "I'll page you if we get a hit."

"When. When, Nick."

* * *

Grissom walked into the interview room, Mrs. Stargsbridge already there and being asked countless questions by Brass, Sara and the FBI. Feeling a twang of pity, he took a seat in front of her.

"May I?"

Brass nodded. "Sure."

"Ma'am, I'm sure you're very busy," he started, "and this is a horrible time for you." He pulled out the bag, not beating around the bush. "I only have one question, is this yours?" He held the bag out for her, displaying the lipstick.

She held her hand out for it, moving the bag around. "Can I take it out?"

Grissom put on a pair of gloves, and withdrew it. "I'm sorry, I can't let you touch it."

She shook her head. "I don't think you pop it? You know, let me see the colour?"

Grissom nodded, twisting it a little. To his surprise, it was forest green.

She laughed a little, shaking her head with a sad smile. "No...no, that's not mine."

"Thank you," Grissom said, putting it back in the evidence bag. "One more question, if that's all right, before I leave."

She shrugged, non-committal. "I suppose."

"Was Patrick married before?"

She nodded, closing her eyes momentarily. "We've been married three years...his first marriage was about ten years ago, I think. He never talked about it much."

"Any children?"

"No...they were only married for a few months. She died...like I said, he never talked about it much." She looked up at Grissom, expression changing completely. "Do you think that has something to do with this?"

"At this point...we're still collecting evidence."

She nodded, accepting. "All right. Will you tell me when you know what happened?"

"I will."

* * *

_"Will you tell me when you know what happened?"_

Mrs. Starsbridge's voice ran through Grissom's head as he walked through the hall to his office. When he looked up he felt dread in the pit of his stomach, and another voice in his head, snippets from past conversations.

_"Then he was murdered? ...he was such a good man.... I thought you were going to tell me you found him.... "_

"Paige Harmon," Grissom said to himself, under his breath.

"Mr. Grissom!" she called, walking up to him. "Mr. Grissom...it is Mr. Grissom, isn't it? It's been some time since I've seen you."

"Mrs. Harmon...I...."

"I was watching the news, and I heard they'd found another 'staged suicide' as you said?"

"I...it appears that way."

"So, you never caught him?"

Grissom exhaled, collecting his thoughts. "It's complicated, Mrs. Harmon. We...all I can tell you right now is that this is either the original killer returned or a copycat. It's...it's never easy to tell."

"A serial killer? Is that who killed Royce?"

"I'm sorry, I can't tell you anything more—"

"He was such a good man...why?" she asked, the pain of old wounds opening putting an edge of hysteria to her voice.

"Mrs. Harmon, we're doing everything we can to catch him."

Her lower lip trembled, distraught, until she calmed herself with visible effort and nodded. "All right...I'm sorry I troubled you, Mr. Grissom."

"It's no trouble." He put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

* * *

"Grissom, would you come in here a moment?" Drake asked, peeking his head out the interview room door.

"I already talked to the wife—"

"Just for a minute?"

Grissom shrugged, walking in. As he made the final step across the threshold, Drake shut the door behind him and stood dutifully at it. Grissom turned around, suddenly feeling trapped.

"Sit down," Sanders said, seated at the blocky table.

Grissom turned back, and noted the absence of life beyond he and the two agents. _Oh, shit...._

"Have a seat."

He walked over, pulling out the chair and sitting heavily, throwing his clipboard on the table. "We can't talk in my office?"

"No." Sanders leaned in, pushing the 'on' button of a voice recorder with a silver pen. "Atmosphere."

"Power," Grissom corrected.

"Something like that," Sanders agreed, leaning back in his chair.

"I won't be your mouse," Grissom said, moving to stand.

"Wait, wait," Sanders said quickly. "This is just a friendly conversation."

"Friendly conversation." Grissom rested his chin on his fist with raised eyebrows. "Recorded in an interrogation room?"

"Interview room," Drake corrected from the door.

Grissom laughed darkly. "Right."

"Look, we do it this way or we make it a hearing."

"A hearing?"

"Yeah." Sanders took his pen and tapped his own clipboard. "To see whether you keep your job or not."

"What is this about?"

"You know what this is about," Sanders said.

"Nigel Milander," came the helpful voice from the door.

"Thank you, Drake."

Grissom frowned deeply. "I really can't help you with that. No one told me I was going to lose my job when he planted my fingerprints," he countered.

Sanders laughed. "Fingerprints." He flipped through a few pages, tucking them under the board and crossed his legs. "Fingerprints," he repeated. "I can see the similarity between a killer planting the mislaid fingerprints of an investigator and a killer giving birth to an investigator's baby."

"If you're determined enough, anything is possible."

Sanders leaned forward. "Well, we're doing our investigation. This is part of it. I'd just like to make note that, to maintain your level of authority in the building the outside speakers have been shut off, so no one can hear this besides us." Sanders turned to his lackey at the door. "Shut the blinds, would you?"

"Maintain my authority," Grissom said with a smile. "After passers by in the hall were already witness to your dragging me in here."

"We didn't drag you," Sanders countered. "We asked nicely."

Grissom frowned, giving in a little. "Thank you for closing the blinds."

"You're welcome. Give a little, get a little, you know."

Grissom sighed. Bite the bullet. "What do you want to know? Not that I really have a lot a can tell you."

Sanders looked at his page, a list of questions. "Where do you masturbate?"

Laughing a tad, he replied, "Excuse me?"

"You heard the question. Don't try to tell me you're the least bit modest."

"In my townhouse."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"You're sure?"

Grissom waved his hand. "I can't think of anywhere else, really."

"Have you ever donated to a sperm bank?"

"No."

"Are any samples of your sperm kept anywhere?"

"No."

"Did you ever suspect someone had broken in to your...townhouse, was it?"

Grissom shrugged. "Not that I know of. Not that it mattered; Milander's broken into everything from barns to hotel rooms."

"Do you suspect he broke into your townhouse?"

"Not that I can tell...I suppose..." Grissom looked a little ill. "I suppose it's possible."

"Right." As indicated by his tone, Sanders swerved quickly off the subject. He looked down his list, and rolled his eyes at the next question. "When you interviewed Milander about..." he flipped another page, "...credit card receipts for rubber hands, after the second victim, you interviewed him at his place of work."

"I did," Grissom agreed.

"Was that any help?"

"No. He didn't keep books or records of transactions. Artists often don't."

"And yet," Sanders said, checking the logs, "you record that you stayed there for at least an hour."

Pausing, and looking at his hands, Grissom answered. "He wasn't a suspect at that time."

"Did you have sex with him then?"

Grissom looked up. "No," he responded flatly.

"It took an hour for him to tell you that he didn't keep books and records?"

"No."

"Then what did you do for an hour?" Sanders checked the book. "_...interviewed Paul Milander, former suspect from the Harmon homicide, cleared, re: credit card receipts for purchasers of rubber hands..._. And, looking a little further, the next record in your time log was you taking a five minute break to get coffee before returning to the lab. That was an hour and twenty minutes later you returned."

"If I'd had sex with him, I would have known he was transgendered and the case details on the third murder would have fallen in to place after that," Grissom reasoned.

"Unless you just hid it. Made it look like you didn't sleep with a serial killer."

"We were at his warehouse. It was an interview."

"For an hour?"

"I wanted to get a feel for him as a person," he replied.

"Did you do anything sexual with him? Then you wouldn't have known he was woman at all."

"He wasn't a woman," piped up Drake from the doorway.

"It doesn't matter—"

"Never state that a fact doesn't matter," Grissom countered. "Milander is transgendered—not a woman."

"Fine." Sanders returned to the question list. "Did you do anything sexual with him?" he repeated.

"No," Grissom affirmed.

"Ever?"

"No."

"What did you do for an hour, then?"

"We...talked."

"That's funny. Where I'm from that's a euphemism."

"Where I'm from it means we talked." Grissom leaned back, gathering his calm.

"About?"

Shrugging, Grissom recalled what he could. "Art, the rubber hands, the types of people he sold them to...his working environment. Things like that."

"And about the—"

They were interrupted by Grissom's pager beeping. He checked it, complete with a smile. "That's for me." He stood, putting the pager back in his pocket. "Nice chatting."

Sanders frowned. "We'll be talking to you again."

"Of course you will."

* * *

"Sorry to bother you boss—" started Nick.

Grissom frowned. "You pulled me away from a very intriguing conversation," he warned.

"Sorry." Nick handed Grissom the fingerprint analysis. "Your doll's print came back Angela Gething."

"She's only eight," Grissom said, glancing at the stats. "Any connection to the victims?"

"No...but I found a possibly useful connection."

"Being?"

"Angela Gething is, like you said, an eight year old girl, who happens to live in Mulberry County."

"Mulberry County..." Grissom folded the paper. "Where's Sara?"

"I thought you were supposed to know where everyone was."

"I was detained by our federal friends," he explained. "Wasn't she working on processing footprints found at the scene?"

"As far as I know," Nick replied.

"Thanks."

* * *

"Sara?"

Beleaguered, Sara looked up from the books. "Gris, hi..." she motioned pulling her hair out. "Someone should really put all these shoe treads in a computer."

"Road trip?" Grissom asked.

Sara brightened. "Sure. Where to?"

"Mulberry. To interview the source of our doll's print."

"I'm with you," Sara said, leaping up and grabbing her jacket.

Grissom eyed the piles of open and scattered binders. "You're just going to leave it like that?"

"Sure." Sara shrugged. "Why not?"

* * *

With its prim gables and neat paint job, the Gething house had character and fit in with the houses on the block. A little old fashioned, but inviting. Some of the houses had gardens, flush with colour, others had porches with quaint little swings. Grissom smiled at the happy, bright and country feel the sitting row of homes emoted.

After a knock, they were admitted to the house, and this changed.

The furniture was immaculate. There were books on shelves. Shoes lined up neatly in their matching shoe rack. A slew of coats, dusted and tucked neatly in a closet, proudly and stiffly waited to be protectors against a cold that Nevada simply never had. Not even on the coldest nights.

The kitchen, visible from the doorway, was neat and tidy, ready to serve a meal. The air was musty, stale, contradicting the bright atmosphere of everything it permeated. Crimsons splashed with ivory...a television stoically out of place on the bookshelf, the only hint of a modern era.

If the house had been old and creaky and a little bigger, it would have been the residence of Judge Douglas Mason...a.k.a. Paul Milander.

And then there were the Gethings.

"Hello! Nice to see you," said the lady with the cheery smile and the equally cheery dress. "You're new to the neighbourhood, aren't you?" She extended her hand. "That's lovely to meet you! I'm—"

"Leena Gething," Grissom answered for her.

She shook his hand, smiling and surprised. "Yes! How did you know that? You were at the Reilly's house, weren't you?" She giggled, straight out of a bad 50s sitcom. "They're always talking about us. Good things, of course."

"Ma'am, we're with the Las Vegas crime lab," Grissom started, pulling his ID. "I'm Gil Grissom, this is Sara Sidle. May we come in? We'd just like to ask a few questions."

"Well, sure!" Leena gestured exuberantly and led them to the sitting room. "Just make yourselves all comfortable, and I'll be right back. I've got a plate of cookies that—"

"That's all right, ma'am, we'll only be—"

"Nonsense. I'll only be a minute." She scampered off to the kitchen. "Just have a seat and be comfortable," she called from the kitchen.

Grissom sat and turned to Sara, who looked like she's just made her own personal Casper friend and it wasn't turning out so well. "Are you okay?"

"I think I'm going to be sick," she said quietly. "It's like...wow, is everyone in this area like this?"

Grissom shrugged, now able to enjoy the surreal and creepy atmosphere of the tight knit Mulberry community. "From what it looks like. Milander's house was almost the same."

She shivered. "You know, I saw the Stepford Wives? It just got a whole lot creepier. Do you think if I bashed her in with a hammer there'd be wires?"

Grissom raised his eyebrow, appreciating the morbid humour.

"Here we are," Leena said, bustling back. "Here are the cookies," she said, putting the tray on the table in front of them. "Help yourselves!"

Sara smiled, trying to seem genuine, which was near impossible.

"Mrs. Gething," Grissom started, "would it be possible to speak to your daughter Angela?"

"Angela? Well, sure. She's," Leena checked the clock. "She's at a friend's house, that little Alice girl's house. Well, actually, her name is Alicia, but everyone here calls her Alice. Angela will be back in about fifteen minutes, to wash up for supper."

"We have some questions for you as well," Grissom said.

"Sure, whatever you need to know." Leena suddenly looked very worried. "Has there been an accident? Is Angela in trouble?"

"No, ma'am. We're just looking into leads we have on a rather peculiar case."

Leena nodded, again bright and cheery. "Sure. What would you like to know, then?"

Grissom sat back, pulling a pen out to take some notes. "Did you know a Paul Milander?"

"Milander...no, I don't think so. There's a lot of people in Mulberry, though, so he might just be around and I've never heard of him."

"What about Judge Douglas Mason?"

Leena lit up, like a Christmas tree on fire. "Doug? Oh," she laughed, "everyone knew Doug."

"Doug?" Sara asked, a little incredulous.

"Sure," she said, waving her hand. "Dougie, as the kids called him. The kids loved him...shame he left. He used to coach the baseball and soccer. Taught an art class, too." She smiled, remembering. "Shame about his leaving. He was great with kids. Too bad he couldn't have any of his own, how unfortunate about that. But all the other kids got to play with him, so it all works out that way, I guess."

"Wait," Sara said. "He told you about that?"

"About what?"

"About why he couldn't have kids?"

Leena shrugged, still with that face-splitting smile that was natural on no planet. "Well, we never talked about it. You don't really talk about, you know," Leena pointed to her waist, "things down there, you know. Someone said he was in a accident, and someone else said it was some kind of genetic disorder. But that doesn't really matter, does it."

"Right," Sara said.

"You said he left?" Grissom asked.

"Yes."

"With his family?"

"Ah, yes, Shelley and Craig. They were lovely. Shame about them leaving too."

"Why did they leave?" Grissom asked.

"Oh, I don't know for sure...lots of people said Doug got a new job, as a higher judge somewhere else, but my Leonard insists that they were going through a divorce and trying to hide it from the adoption agency. They can get pretty strict there, you know."

"Leonard?"

"My husband. He knew Doug all right. Most people did. He was such a nice man, you know. Took care of things, gave legal advice...went to church, that kind of thing."

Sara's eyebrows shot to her hairline. "Church?"

"Of course. Lead the fellowship breakfasts three years in a row."

Sara nodded, a little dumbstruck.

"Mrs. Gething," Grissom began again, "where did they move to?"

"The Masons? Well, I know it was California...either Los Angeles or Los something..." she tapped her lips. "Or maybe it was one of the M ones. You know, like Monterey or Modesto."

"Monterey is in Mexico," Grissom explained.

"Is it? Well, they didn't move to Mexico!"

Grissom nodded. "Do you have a forwarding address for the family?"

Leena shook her head. "Sorry."

The door opened.

"Oh! There's Angela now!" Leena leaped up, going to the door to great her daughter and usher her over to the visitors on the couch. "Honey-bunches, this is Miss Sidle and...I'm sorry, what did you say your name was?"

"Gil Grissom."

She smiled again. "Miss Sidle and Mr. Grissom. They're from Las Vegas."

"Hello," Angela said, shying behind her mother.

"They want to ask you some questions, all right?"

"Okay."

Grissom took an evidence bag from his large front pocket, leaning towards the girl. As he did so, Sara stood, reluctantly looking around the plastic house.

"Do you recognise this doll?"

Angela looked up, reaching for the bag, but Grissom held it from her at a comfortable distance. "It's mine," she said simply, with some authority.

"Do you know how it got out of your house?"

Angela stepped forward, closer to the doll, but her mother pulled her back. With a stern warning, she sat on the couch across.

"It was probably Vickie," she said with a sour face. She draped her skirt modestly over her knees, noticing that it had ridden up a little when she sat down. "I don't like her—"

"Now, Angela, it's not nice to say things like that."

"Well," Angela began again, "she's okay. But I think she took it. She was at my birthday party last week." Angela frowned and crossed her arms. "I saw her pulling it by the hair."

Grissom looked up to Mrs. Gething. "Do you think she took this doll?"

Leena shrugged. "It's possible," she laughed, "kids with their sticky fingers, you know. Angela did have a party last week, and I don't know anyone who takes better care of their toys than my Angel!"

"We'll need to talk to her." Grissom put the doll back in his pocket, to Angela's severe disappointment. "We need her address, and a last name."

"I want my doll," Angela said quickly, leaping of the couch.

Before Leena could scold her, Grissom soothed her. "Right now your doll is helping us do something very important. I promise that when we're finished we'll get her back to you. Good as new."

Angela didn't seem completely satisfied, but she retreated and sat back on the couch.

"Well, Vickie is Victoria Henley. They live right across the street, in the blue house with the red door. I'm sorry, I don't know their address," Leena said.

Grissom nodded. "Thank you for your help."

* * *

"Ugh..." Sara shuddered. "That was creepy."

Grissom shrugged. "Different people, different traditions."

"She was wearing a dress...they both were! Since when do little girls go out to play in dresses?" Sara asked, standing next to the Tahoe.

"Different traditions," he repeated. "I think it's...refreshing to see something different."

"Refreshing?" Sara was aghast. "You call this refreshing?"

"Something out of the usual is always refreshing, Sara."

"Yeah, unless it's creepy," she replied, watching Grissom as he walked down the driveway and started across the street. "What? We're not taking the Tahoe?"

"It's just across the street, Sara."

"You mean we have to talk to more of these people?" With a begrudged first step, she started to follow. "Creepy."

* * *

Any hope Sara had of the Henleys being at all removed from the Gethings was zapped when she stepped in the door. The same cheery plastic house was swirling with the same musty air that just didn't fit.

"Mr. Henley? I'm Gil Grissom, and this is Sara Sidle. We're with the Las Vegas crime lab. We'd just like to ask a few questions, if that's all right."

Mr. Henley smiled, more pleasant and sincere than Mrs. Gething. "Sure thing, come on in."

Slightly more at ease, Grissom and Sara made their way to a sitting room. There was no television, however, in the Henley household from what they could gather.

"Now, what can I help you with?"

"You have a daughter, Victoria?"

"Vickie? Sure," he said. "Why?"

"If we could, we'd just like to ask her a question?"

Mr. Henley nodded, leaving shortly to go up the stairs.

"At least this one is less chilly," Sara said by way of comment. "No TV. What do these people do?"

"Go outside, spend time with each other...."

"Can people really still do that?"

"Some people have it in them," Grissom assured her.

"This is my daughter Vickie," Mr. Henley said, returning to the room. "What do you need to know?"

As the pair entered the room, a small-ish woman walked in behind them.

Grissom again with drew the doll from his pockets. "Does this look familiar?"

Vickie looked at it, and shrugged shyly.

"Answer them, honey."

Looking to her father with wide eyes, Vickie shook her head, finishing with "No."

"Are you sure?"

Vickie took another look. "Yes."

Grissom nodded, knowing it was a weak lead anyway. "Mr. Henley, if I could ask you a question."

"Sure."

"Did you know a Paul Milander?"

He thought a moment. "No."

Sara leaned in. "What about Judge Douglas Mason?"

"Doug?" Henley smiled a little. "Sure. At least, I did know him...is he in trouble?"

"We were wondering what you know about his leaving the area?"

"They moved to Modesto," Henley said with confidence. "They didn't say much about why, so the rumours started flying. The only two that really meant anything were that he'd gotten a better job or they were divorcing." Mr. Henley frowned. "Divorce doesn't go over well here."

Grissom nodded in non-committal agreement. "Was he close to anyone here?"

Mr. Henley shrugged, having lost the smile from before and now appeared tired. The unintroduced woman still stood soundlessly at the doorway. "As close as anyone. He liked to peachtree everyone, you know. That type."

"I'm sorry," Sara said. "Peachtree?"

Mr. Henley shrugged. "I suppose it's just a local expression. Like a brownoser, but more well-intentioned. Like he did want to help but it got over bearing at times. Peachtree."

Sara nodded. "All right. What else can you tell us?"

Mr. Henley shrugged again, looking to his wife and daughter shortly, indicating a euphemism upcoming. "If you're asking who his _special friend_," he said with raised eyebrows, "was, I don't know. I never could figure out."

"Special friend?" Sara asked.

Mr. Henley frowned. "Mason...he hid it well...but it was the little things."

"You think he was homosexual?" Sara asked.

Henley immediately covered his little girl's ears, and she didn't react. "Do you mind?"

"Sorry," Sara said, a little shaken.

"Is he dead?"

"Why do you ask that?" asked Grissom.

"She said," Henley started, pointing to Sara, "was. Not is...as if he were still alive."

"We can't discuss case details Mr. Henley, but from what we can tell Mr. Mason is still alive."

"Did you suspect anyone of being his...special friend?" Sara asked.

Henley shrugged. "Not really. But he spent a lot of time away from the community." Henley smirked. "Shopping, people said. Who knows what he got up to."

"Did he spend a lot of time with anyone in particular?" Grissom asked.

"No one more than anyone else, and believe me, I looked."

"Then what lead you to believe he was...of a different persuasion?" asked Grissom delicately.

"He was oddly feminine. Barely noticeable. Just little quirks...and that really got to me. I can't believe no one else noticed—"

"He was just a nice man," said the woman finally, breaking her silence. "He wasn't gay, he was just a—"

"Gloria," Henley said, firm and strict. "Anyway, it was that...and his art. He liked to paint, and he wrote poems. There was also a recital, and he played a...showtune," Henley said with a hidden glare.

"Barry, it was a revue recital, the songs have to be from—"

"Thank you, Gloria." Henley leaned down to Victoria, whispering into her ear, and she scampered off. "There was also—"

"Wait," Grissom interjected. "If I could...you said, a recital?"

"For show tunes."

"What did he play?"

"Piano," Henley answered. "Half decent, I guess, but never played anything good. Used to give lessons before they adopted Craig. When he was a lawyer."

Grissom nodded. "Thank you for your help."

Henley nodded. "He spent too much time with the kids. Never anything good about a man who spends too much time with other people's kids."

"Thank you," Grissom repeated, heading with Sara and Henley to the door.

* * *

Upon returning to the lab, Grissom found Nick and Greg eagerly awaiting his arrival.

"Happy to see me or is that evidence in your pocket?"

"Heh, heh," Greg said, pulling a roll of papers from his inside coat pocket. "Nickie and I found something our vics have in common."

"All of them?"

"Well, not exactly," Nick said. "Nothing besides the birthdate."

"Bennett and Foster both went to Gregory Morris. Our third vic, Stargsbridge, went to Lion's Gate Centennial, one of those private religion school dealies."

"And?" Grissom asked.

"But...Stargsbridge and Foster," Greg started, inserting dramatic pauses for effect, "both worked at the Nevada Parks and Tourism Commission offices."

"NPTC? So our killer is someone who could have gone to Gregory Morris and worked at the NPTC."

"Not exactly again," Greg said. "Anyone has access to high school yearbooks, as Warrick and Sara found on their visit to GM High. But employment records are probably a little harder to get a hold of," Greg said with a smile.

"I was just about to leave when we heard you were coming back," Nick explained. "Warrick and I are off to the NPTC, now...just wanted to fill you in."

"Thanks, guys," Grissom said, smiling proud. He turned to Nick. "Good luck, and bring back everything you can."

"Sure thing, boss."

* * *

Pride and relief were short lived, however, as Grissom found himself again dragged into an interrogation room with his favourite agents, Drake and Sanders.

"We're recording this of course," Sanders said indicating the recorder after Grissom seated himself with a huff. "And again we've allowed the blinds to be shut and the outside speakers turned off."

Grissom frowned. "How kind of you."

Sanders sat down, pulling out his notes. "Now, we left off last time where you said you never had sex with Milander and spent an hour simply talking to him, correct?"

Grissom nodded. "Yes."

"All right, clearing that up, in the time from when you first met Milander to the time he faked his death, who did you have sex with?"

"Why does that matter?"

"Because perhaps one of them was a trick, to get at you for Milander. Or maybe you discarded a condom. We're trying to cover the bases, Grissom. Find out what happened so we can let you continue on here." Sanders put down his clipboard and folded his hands. "I'd hate to see a good man get shot down here, but I've got to see you are a good man. I've heard volumes about your integrity and talent, but those are just the eyewitness reports," Sanders said with a knowing smile. "I still need evidence."

"Of course."

"Now, in that...approximate year and a half time line, who did you have intercourse with?" Sanders waved his hand. "Or do something that involved ejaculating?"

Grissom sighed heavily tapping his fingers. "I'd really rather not answer that—"

"And we'd really rather not ask it, but we have to. Now, please answer the question."

Grissom looked up, biting his lip. "Catherine," he answered.

"Catherine...Willows?" Sanders completed.

Grissom nodded. "Yes."

Sanders raised an eyebrow, making a note of that.

"Are you going to accuse her of passing it off to Milander?"

"No, no...how many times?"

"Once," Grissom replied. "It was...a friendly thing. Never happened before, never happened since," he said, antsy on the subject.

"Where?"

"My townhouse."

"You used a condom?"

"Yes," he replied simply.

"What did you do with it?"

"I threw it in the garbage," Grissom said, impressing himself with his maintained calm.

"How often do you throw out your garbage?"

"By the time it got anywhere outside my building it wouldn't have been possible to...use it," he said, swallowing through a constricted and dry throat.

"All right." Sanders wrote down some more things in his notes. "Who else?"

Grissom bit his lip again, tapping the table with agitation.

"Well? I don't want to drag this on. Someone else on your team, perhaps?"

"No," Grissom answered quietly.

"Then who else?"

Grissom crossed his arms, and with shifty eyes looked around the room. "No one," he replied finally.

"No one."

"Yes."

"In a two year period—"

"Year and a half," Grissom corrected.

"Fine, in a year and a half you only slept with Catherine Willows."

"Yes," he replied firmly.

"And nothing sexual? No sexual favours, no...messing around besides that?"

"No."

"In a year and a half."

"No."

Sanders wrote that down. "All right, then. Now, In that same period, were you ever on anything, controlled or otherwise, drugs, alcohol or anything that made you black out?"

Grissom shook his head. "I...I spend most nights at home. I go out to eat sometimes...but I never noticed any unexplained lapse of time. Otherwise I'm at work...and I would have noticed gaps in my logs or hours."

Sanders nodded. "I also have some questions about Milander. You knew him the best, after all. You were the only one who really had any contact with him."

"My contact with him was minimal."

"And yet he shared so much with you. About his childhood, about his sex change...things he'd never told anyone. About his motivations, about his murders—"

"He never confessed," Grissom said. "Even if we caught him you'd be hard pressed to pin any case on him."

"Are you saying he was innocent?" Sanders asked with an accusing stare.

"No," Grissom replied coolly, "I'm saying he covered his tracks exceptionally well. Even with the evidence we have—"

Sanders stopped him. "That's the other reason we're here." With heavy motions, Sanders dropped what looked to be a transcript on the table. "Do you know what happens to cases that are closed, Grissom?"

"They no longer need to be investigated," he stated simply.

"And what happens to the evidence?"

Grissom sat up. "It is destroyed."

Sanders smiled bitterly. "Milander's case evidence was destroyed, returned or put into criminology archives when the case was closed." Pointing to the transcript, he continued. "If it wasn't for the research being done on the mind of a killer, specifically serials or psychological compulsions to become so, we would have nothing. This is the transcript from your last interview with Milander, a.k.a. Douglas Mason. Besides that and the hair evidence stored in your lab's cold storage and autopsy photos and reports for his victims, we have no evidence."

Grissom looked at the transcript, picking it up and looking at in horror. "That's why you never put out an arrest warrant...."

"You can't arrest if you can't prove to the point of suspicion," Sanders added with a sigh.

Grissom put the report down.

"We arrest Milander, the judge will laugh us out of court. All we have is what's on these pages and in your head. Your credibility might have been enough at least to hold him if we found him, but," Sanders frowned deeply. "Nigel Milander."

Grissom shrugged. "I don't know how that happened...I wish I did."

* * *

Bumping fists in what could be mistaken for an impressive secret handshake, Nick and Warrick headed in to the NTPC building.

"Ooh..." Warrick said, glacing around the entrance, noticing the not very subtle gardens and waterfalls _inside_ the building. "Think Grissom could get someone to spring for one of these?" he asked, indicating the impressive fountain.

"I think we could qualify for a kiddie pool and a palm tree...granted they took it from the yard," he replied, headed for the front desk.

"Excuse me, miss," Nick said, getting the young woman's attention, ID in hand. "We're from the Las Vegas crime lab and we need to talk to someone in your administration. Someone with access to personel files and records."

She checked her computer. "Uh...you should probably talk to Mr. Nielson. He runs our human resources department." She automatically hit a hold button on phone that started ringing. "It's in the basement."

"And how do we get to the basement?"

"Through that elevator there," she said pointing down a hall to an elevator that didn't fit the cleaned glass and tropical atmosphere of the rest of the building. "Push the button that says B. Just don't go to the sub basements," she warned, "they're nasty." She picked up a phone. "Nevada Tourism and Parks Commission, how can I help you?" she greeted, apparently done with talking to the investigators.

"Right-o," Warrick said, starting down the hall. "Hey, you comin'?"

Nick turned suddenly. "Yeah, yeah, I'm coming."

* * *

The human resources department was a sweat shop compared to the rest of the building. There were cubicles, few windows, white walls and obnoxious lighting.

"What is this? The corporate twlight zone?"

Nick shrugged. "It can be anything it wants as long as we find this Nielson guy."

Warrick approached the nearest cubicle. "Excuse me, do you know where we can find Mr. Nielson?"

The man looked up from his computer, at these odd elements from above. "He's in the office."

"And which office is that?"

"_The_ office," he said, pointing to the opposite wall. Sure enough, there was a little door there that almost vanished in the identically painted wall. "There's only one."

"Thank you," Warrick said, starting off and through the rows of cubicles. When they reached the end, a polite knock was followed by a gruff "Come in," and they admitted themselves.

"Phil Nielsen," he said, standing and holding out his hand. He sat down. "Now...something tells me you boys aren't here looking for a job."

"Sir," Nick started, "we're with the Las Vegas crime lab and we'd like to—"

"I'm not in trouble, am I?"

"No, no, sir," Nick assured him, "we just have a few questions about employees and the records you keep."

"I'm sorry, but employee information is extremely confidential. Our policies state you'll need a warrant."

Warrick smiled. "We're glad to hear that. Extremely glad. We just want to know who has access to employee records...specifically dates of birth."

Neilson leaned back in his chair. "Now that I can tell you." He leaned forward, employing his computer. "I have access, the secretaries that file reports and anyone sending people out or doing background checks...which are the various heads of each department here at the NPTC would have access."

"Can we have a list of those people?"

"Printing it off—"

Neilsen was cut off by the sounds of his printer in operation. "Now," he finished, pulling the sheet off the printer. "Here you are. Names, departments and office numbers. Like I said, anything else and you'll need a warrant."

"Thank you very much," Warrick said with a bright smile. "Now, are you sure _no one_ else has access to employee information."

"No one."

Warrick and Nick turned to each other, nodding smugly. "Choice," they chorused, heading out the door.

* * *

Leaving and doing a victory dance, a secretary with copious amounts of brown curly hair stopped them.

"I heard you guys talkin' to 'im," she said, standing up and whispering. "Walls are thin, here," she explained.

"And you are?"

"Candy Bell," she replied.

"That..." Nick started, "that doesn't sound like your real name, if you don't mind," he said.

"I used to be a..." she paused, "dancer, but then Danny told me to get a more 'respectable' job. Anyway, yous are with the police?"

"Crime lab," Warrick corrected.

"Like in the TV shows?"

"Similar."

"Cool," she said, nodding.

"Great to meet you," Warrick said, trying to bow out gracefully, "but we're really very busy and need to—"

"No, no, wait," she said, her voice going up in volume slightly. "I heard you asking about records and birth dates."

"We already have a list of people with access—"

"No you don't," she smiled, making eyes at Nick.

"Do you know of someone else with access, ma'am?" Warrick asked.

"Sure do."

"And who would that be?"

She smiled knowingly. "Everyone."

Nick laughed. "Come on, you can't possibly tell me everyone has access to confedential records—"

"You asked for records. Not birth dates."

"That information is available somewhere else?"

She picked up a piece of paper from her desk. "If you know where to look."

Nick read the paper. "_NTPC Weekly Update, your voice in the community._" He looked to Warrick. "Newsletter."

"Check page three," she suggested.

Nick flipped the pages, reading again. "Birthdays for this week," Nick rolled his eyes and dropped his arms. "Dammit," he muttered.

"Ma'am, does your company keep copies of that newsletter?" Warrick asked.

"Sure do," she said, tapping her filing cabinet. "Right here."

"Could we have copies of all the newsletters that published birthdays for August 17?"

She shrugged and winked. "That depends...you want to go to dinner?"

Nick smiled weakly. "I'd love to...but I'm taken. Very flattered though," he said, flashing his treadmark smile.

"Oh well. Can't say I didn't try," she said with a sigh, looking through the cabinet. "I can mail them to you—"

"We'll wait," Nick said. "If that's all right."

She winked again. "You can wait here all you want."

* * *

Brass sat, a guest in Grissom's office, thankful that the fairly lethal looking and rather big bug was still in its box, even if it was on the desk.

"You wanted to talk to me, Gil?"

Grissom nodded, signing a form and throwing it in his out-box. "Done," he said with a relieved sigh. Brass smiled, recalling the time Grissom had put his wastepaper basket on top on his desk and labelled it 'In-Box'.

"Is this about the case ," Grissom said, folding his fingers together and assuming a different mood and bearing—from paper pushing Grissom to nervous Grissom. It was really quite a switch. "Drake and Sanders pulled me back into their _friendly interview_ room again," he said with a disapproving frown.

"Again?"

"Again."

"I don't see what else they could have asked you...." Brass scratched his head. "From what you told me it sounded like they did a thorough job of putting you under their microscope."

Nodding, Grissom picked up a pen and tapped it repeatedly on the desk. "They did."

"So, what did they say this time?"

"Everything they had before."

"Then what do you need to talk about?"

"It's not what they were saying," Grissom tried to explained, "but how they were, which was—"

Grissom's office door opened, cutting him off. Catherine entered, standing at the doorway.

"Hey, I'm leaving now," she said, glancing at her watch. "I just wanted to remind you to fill out that form for the EHIC Conference in Houston." She gave him a pointed look. "It has to be faxed _today_."

Grissom smiled and held up a paper from his out box.

"Thanks," she said, turning and leaving.

"All right, then how were they saying it?"

He shrugged, returning to nervous Grissom mode, picking up the pen again. "Aggressive, watchdog..." he tapped the pen faster. "I don't know how to explain it."

"Standard interrogation procedures," Brass said lightly. "You've seen it thousands of times. Hell, you've been a part of it."

"It doesn't..." Grissom stopped his pen tapping, thinking, then started up with greater fury. "It doesn't help you prepare for the other side."

"There's nothing else you can tell them." Brass leaned back. "You've answered everything and I don't see what else they can possibly ask—"

The door opened again, and this time Warrick and Nick entered.

"Hey, boss, we're back from the NTPC," Nick said. "Wanted to fill you in before clocking out."

Warrick stepped forward and put a pile of photocopies on Grissom's desk. "Found something a little disappointing."

Grissom glanced at the papers and then back up at them, authority back in his eyes and face. "Too many with access to records?"

"Not exactly," Nick started.

"They swear that their records are confidential," Warrick said, "and maybe they are." Tapping the papers, he brought Grissom's attention back to them. "But this is the problem." Warrick opened up the top one, and pointed.

"_Birthdays for the week of August 15 to 21...August 17, Jordan Foster,_" Grissom read with dismay. "Newsletters."

"Given to anyone in the company," Warrick explained. "And anyone off the streets with determination."

"It's the yearbooks all over again," Nick finished.

Grissom nodded. "Thank you. Just finish your time reports and any other unfinished reports and you can leave."

Warrick and Nick smiled and hi-fived. "Sweet," they chorused, filing out. When they were gone, Grissom stood, locking his door and shutting his blinds. He returned to his chair and, for added measure, shut off his cell and threw it in a drawer.

"They'll all still find a way to interrupt you," Brass warned.

Grissom picked up the pen again and shrugged. "Probably."

"What's getting at you? Are you afraid they're going to find some magical question they haven't asked you yet? You know that never happens. They've shown all their cards by now."

The pen went faster. "I'm...I might...tell them," he said looking away.

"Tell them what?" Brass crossed his arms. "And put that pen down. You're driving me nuts."

Grissom all but threw the pen, dragging his palms roughly down his face and breathing deeply. "Tell them...."

"What haven't you told them?"

He frowned deeply, making eye contact only with the exotic six-legged creature in the breathable container on his desk. "An estimated sixty percent of cases go unreported...."

Brass looked at him for a minute. "Rape?" he said quietly.

Grissom looked back up him shortly. "Sort of."

"Then you do know what happened."

He nodded. "If I don't tell you, I might tell...them."

"All right, all right," Brass said, leaning forward and lowering his tone of voice. "If you have to tell someone...."

"If I don't," Grissom began, "I might end up telling someone who shouldn't hear it. Like our friends, Drake and Sanders."

"Even if you did, rape isn't something they'll blame you for." Brass frowned, a little awkwardly. "You'd have to tell them, but it'd clear your name and it'd be confidential."

Grissom shook his head. "No, I'm not telling them."

"I could understand why you wouldn't, but this is important—you know that. You tell them, clear your name, swallow your pride. Just talk them through it once and you'll never have to worry about them again—"

"No," Grissom interrupted. "That's...that's not everything."

Brass looked confused. "All right."

"I...I don't know," Grissom continued. "I don't know if I could convince anyone that...it was."

"You might not want to talk about this," Brass started, "but if you're going to tell me, tell me. Even being a detective, you know I'm no match for your word games. Tell me once then never again."

Grissom inhaled deeply and jagged, biting his lip. "I was alone one night, at home, and there was a knock. I knew it was odd, because I never get unannounced visitors...I answered it anyway, in case it was one of the neighbours."

"Milander just walked up to your door and knocked?"

Grissom nodded.

"Now that's arrogance."

He shrugged, commenting, "maybe."

"All right, so he forced his way in."

"Not...exactly."

"You let him in?"

"Not that either." Grissom shrugged, looking around for his pen but coming up fruitless in his search. "It's all a haze," he tried to explain. "I remember him walking in; I remember him talking."

"What else do you remember? Were you drunk? On something?"

"Nothing besides caffine withdrawl," he answered. "I remember talking to him...he was telling me about...what he'd done, and why...a little bit of how," Grissom explained.

"Did you try to contact anyone?"

"I couldn't think," Grissom said. "I remember wanting to do something...but...I don't know."

"All right, then what happened?"

"He asked me some questions...I don't remember them. He pulled a gun." Grissom flinched subtly. "He asked where my bedroom was...forced me inside."

Momentarily Brass looked ill, but he hid it quickly. Before he said anything, Grissom continued.

"I fought him...I don't know how long. I remember his putting the gun down...I think he threw it. Maybe not. I relaxed for a second, and then...then he strangled me." Grissom shrugged at the irony he felt, and corrected himself. "Well, not strangled. I'm still breathing."

"He tried to choke you."

Grissom nodded. "He stopped, I think...I think he picked up the gun again." Grissom swallowed heavily. "That's when he...."

"Okay, I get it. Look, tell them. Even if they tried to argue that you let him in or anything like that, he had a gun and—"

"No...that's...it's...." Grissom shook his head. "I have to tell someone, and telling someone half a truth isn't going to help me."

"Something else happened?"

He opened a drawer, and found no pens. "Afterwards, he sat next to me. I...I wasn't fully cognitive," he continued, despite his lack of writing utensils to annoyingly hit against his desk. "He was talking to me again...I remember answering his questions."

"Answering questions, foggy or otherwise, isn't something you need to clear your conscience for."

"No...but...but something else is."

"Then what?"

"I don't know how long he was there, but...after a while I..." Grissom shrugged and looked away.

"I appreciate this is hard," Brass said, "but you're never going to tell me if you keep trailing off."

"I consented," Grissom said, quietly and firmly.

"Consent? What you just said doesn't sound like—"

"Not that part. The part after that."

"And what part was that?" Brass lowered his voice some more. "And just come out and tell me because my mind's racing."

"I...I had sex with him," he answered bluntly. "Consentual," he affirmed.

"No matter what you did or even if you said yes it's still rape...he had a gun and you know that consent with threat of bodily harm is still—"

"I don't know where the gun was at that point," Grissom explained, shaking his head and looking distant. "I don't think it was rape...it didn't feel like it...."

"You knew he had a gun. No matter where he was hiding it, he still had it and no matter what he did to you—"

"That's the problem," Grissom said, looking at the wall and appearing distant.

"Oh?"

"I screwed him."

Brass looked shocked, to say the least. "Milander."

Grissom nodded.

"Paul Milander," Brass said.

He nodded again, daring not give eye contact.

"They'll fry you for that. Even if he pointed a gun to your temple—"

"I know." Grissom sighed. "Even if he had a gun...."

"Paul Milander," Brass repeated, astonished.

"Yes," Grissom said, a bare hint of irritation to his voice.

Brass laughed darkly. "They'll fry you," he repeated. "Were you out of your mind? Suspect or no," Brass said sharply. "Paul Milander?" he repeated for the hat trick. "Gil, I thought you were going deaf, not blind."

Grissom didn't react to the last comment.

"Look, you tell Sanders. Leave out that whole last part. Tell them he raped you, which is close enough to the truth, it sounds. Even that last part is shady enough to pass for rape." Brass shrugged. "Definition is broad anyway. Don't guilt yourself into thinking it wasn't...it wasn't your fault. They'll have a real problem with you not acting like a victim."

"I...I don't know if I am one."

"Just tell them," Brass repeated. "Keep telling them he had a gun, and that's rape."

Grissom shrugged. "I...I don't know if I can tell them."

"Well," Brass checked his watch. "It's quitting time. Go home, rest on it, and tell them tomorrow."

Grissom nodded, absent.

* * *

"I did some compiling," Sara said, back to work with the team in the late evening—the graveyard shift version of bright and early. "Assuming our killer found his victims in yearbooks from Gregory Morris and the newsletters from NTPC," she said, filling Grissom in, "I made a list of all possible victims, using the criteria of white males born on August 17, between the years 1955 and 1970."

Grissom took the list. "At least there's not that many names on the list."

"There's enough for him to work his way back to at least 57, from what I saw."

Grissom frowned. "It might help us...thank you." He put the papers into a folder.

Nick also walked beside them. "Just as a follow up, Warrick and I were planning to run background checks on anyone with access to employee records. Just because their date of births were listed in the newsletter doesn't mean their home addresses were...it still could be someone on both staffs."

Grissom nodded. "Have Greg run a test on—"

"Grissom!"

He stopped, turning in his tracks, to see Drake and Sanders looking very grim and unamused.

"We faxed you everything last night," Grissom said with a somewhat sincere smile.

"That's not what we're here about." They walked forward, and Grissom could see Brass trailing behind, and he felt his stomach sink.

"You're lucky we don't fire you," Drake said, uppity. "Or arrest you and fire you by default."

"That's enough, Rod," Sanders said, silencing his lackey. Behind them, Brass looked clearly dismayed and concerned.

"What are you talking about?" Grissom asked them, feeling his question point itself to Brass.

Sanders laughed a little, almost bitter and acidic. "He didn't tell us, Grissom. And unfortunately it's not enough to get him on." Before there were any further reactions, he held up a small recorder, and hit the play button.

_"That's the problem,"_ said the voice on the tape recorder—his own.

_"Oh?"_ which was Brass's voice.

_"I screwed him."_

Nick and Sara looked very confused.

_"Milander. Paul Milander."_ There was a pause. _"They'll fry you for that. Even if he pointed a gun at your temple—_

_"I know...even if he had a gun..."_

Sanders shut off the tape. "Care to explain that?"

Grissom, a healthy shade of red, looked angry and horrified. "You bugged my office."

"And with good reason." Sanders held up the tape player. "You hid something from us, and now we know what. You're off the case," he said firmly.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Sara cut in. "What's going on?" She turned to Grissom. "That is _not_ your voice."

Grissom only shook his head. "I..." he choked out.

"You're off this case," Sanders repeated. "We're making a note of this in our log, and giving a report to your boss, Ecklie. Until then, you're off the case...and every other case too. You're suspended. Effective immediately."

Grissom swallowed, putting on his best poker face and handing his notes and files to Sara. "Right," he said darkly.

Before anyone else could respond, he left.

* * *

* * *

Notes:

"Time to Burn" by The Rasmus

* * *

To Be Continued...in "Paul Milander's Gun" Part Deux!!! 

_Coming soon to a depraved fic group near you!_

* * *

Elwhis


End file.
